


One Born Every Minute

by Amand_r



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Wolverine (Comics)
Genre: Dubious Consentacles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:00:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through no fault of his own, Clint decided, these things happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Born Every Minute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [copperbadge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/gifts), [Arsenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



> Written for the Marvel Throwdown on Tumblr. I CAME IN LAST, YOU TASTELESS BASTARDS. Dubious consent from pheromones. Also, crotch tentacles. Because Clint+circus.

Through no fault of his own, Clint decided, these things happened to him.

Logan was working on his fifth beer of six, and Clint wasn't sure what would happen when they ran out, since he was also done with two of the four Sherman cigarillos he'd hidden somewhere in that spandex suit and not managed to break despite the fact that Loki had tossed him about a few times like a super-soaked wet-nap. Logan had perforated Loki's something-or-others in return, and as Loki healed in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the cave and Logan nursed his beers and cigars while they waited for the Helicarrier to send a chopper, Clint once again reminded himself that through no fault of his own, these things happened to him. 

Because S.H.I.E.L.D., probably. Possibly because employment.

"You still packing those trick arrows?" Logan asked him without looking over at him. His eyes stared at nothing in particular. He didn't seem to care about Loki, completely comatose on the floor of the cave, or the blood all around him. When Clint had mentioned a pressure bandage, Logan had just raised an eyebrow. Oh that's right, god and all that. _Hand wave_ : the step-son of Odin needs no pressure bandages. 

Clint kicked his half-full quiver and shifted so that the Beretta in the small of his back dug less into his spine. "Green Arrow uses trick arrows."

Logan popped the tab on the last beer. "You should borrow some of his trick arrows."

It was possible he didn't know Ollie Queen was fictional. Logan didn't much care for pop culture.

Loki groaned, and Logan reached over and conked him on the head. Clint was going to say something about the Geneva Convention, but he didn't know anything about it except to say, 'What about the Geneva Convention?' and that wasn't useful. Besides, Loki had almost cleaned their clock even without his stupid staff, no matter how Logan would deny it. Tony had tried to help, but he'd been blown to who knows where, and Steve was in Burma…Myanmar…Burma-place. Fury would send the chopper when he could. 

Thor would have been useful right about now, but then Logan would have probably been forced to share his beer.

"You still got that smell," Logan said suddenly, finishing his beer and tossing the can off into the depths of the cave, where it clanked louder than it should have.

"What?"

"You been giving it off since we came in here," Logan said, cracking his neck from side to side. Clint had been so used to Logan and his _normal-ness_ in some ways, that he had forgotten that he had that other thing about him, all that scent ability and stuff. To tell the truth, he hadn't banked on them being holed up in this fucking cave, actually, so he hadn't taken the drugs that toned it down. The last time he'd forgotten the drugs, he'd been under Loki's control, and he wasn't sure just what he'd done or who he'd done. Forgetting was a good thing.

It was hard to say all of that without saying it, so Clint searched for something noncommittal.

"Uh."

Logan dusted his hands and shifted the cigar to the other corner of his mouth, where his teeth kept a firm grip on it, like Hannibal from the A-Team. Logan had probably been the inspiration for Hannibal from the A-Team. And BA. And Murdock, too. And, well, not so much Face—

"How much of what's about to happen here is gonna be your fault?" Logan asked, his hand twitching minutely.

Clint thought about it. The last thing he wanted was an upset Wolverine creating a few new pop tabs in his sides after coming back to himself, though the fact that his healing factor hadn't filtered out the stuff to begin with was a little surprising. 

"Pretty much mine," he said, going for as honest as he could. He uncrossed his legs and leant forward, forearms on knees, hands laced, mirroring Logan on the boulder opposite. 

It had been a while since they'd worked together, actually. Clint hadn't seen him in about two years, except for glimpses on the news, or the one time they'd totally busted the X-Men in New York. Why didn't they do that more often?

Logan got a free pass for almost everything, it seemed. Clint was pretty sure that Fury would be upset if Logan made some shoelaces from Clint's nether regions, but he wouldn't put him in jail, either. 

Logan reached out with one hand and poked Clint's forearm. "You know if we weren't fucking caved in here, this wouldn't be an issue, right?"

That was the story of his life, actually.

He nodded and looked at the half-full quiver of arrows, tipped to the side and missing all the fun arrows. Maybe he should make something, like a little thing that released nerve gas—

Oh that's right, nerve gas was only funny in the comics.

Logan's fingers went from poking to gripping, and then, with a final glance at Loki, Clint slid forward on his rock a little. He was not going to sit in the other man's lap—no. Logan's grip was bruising, and when he guided Clint's mouth to his, Clint had to actually stoop his spine a little, but Logan's fingers grasped the back of his neck and pulled him in like that big hook Jerry used to use to pull the bad performers off stage. 

Clint wondered if Logan had two different styles for men and women, or if all the women he messed around with liked it this rough. In any case, his fingers were tight at the join and loose at the grip, so that they crushed more than dug. Clint could taste his beer and the cigars on his breath, and Clint had to remove the cigar, pinching it in two fingers and holding it, feeling not unlike he was holding someone's gum for them. 

He'd watched Logan kiss a lot of women. Never any men, because that was something he did in private, if Steve's averting blush was anything to go by. Clint was never sure what to make of it, but the more he bit at Logan's lips, scraped against teeth and breathed into the other man's face, the more he wanted to find out.

His pants were only minutely attached to the vest—clothes riding up and out of place was not something you want to have to worry about in combat, but neither was trying to take off something on fire. Logan let him do the catch on the front, pull the Beretta from the holster and lay it on a far rock, the farthest point from Loki that the gun could get and still be in Clint's reach. 

Things unsnapped and unclicked, and Clint found the laces and yanked them out before Logan could cut them. You don't let someone cut the laces that hold your clothes over your bits, he figured, because you'd need them later. But he shimmied out of them, and then he suddenly remembered the thing that would immediately catch Logan's eye. Not like he could hide it now. It was the thing he was supposed to show him, but, well.

So Logan's eyebrows raised and the corner of his mouth quirked, but there was nothing particularly upset in his face. He took the cigar and flicked the butt into the darkness of the cave, reaching out with two fingers to twist around one of the tentacles, the biggest one with its iridescent sheen.

"This is where I make jokes about the circus," Clint breathed. 

"Shut up," Logan said.

Clint shut.

Logan raised a tentacle to his face and ran his lips along the skin of it, just below the tip. Clint could feel the stubble on his upper lip, and he spared a thought to wonder when and why Logan shaved, and what was the point, the man probably had to shave three times a day, his balls were that big and then, then, Logan raised it to his nose, pressed it to his nostrils and sniffed, and _that_ Clint could feel, the rush of air past his skin and into Logan's nose. Particulates of his own scent going up into Logan's olfactory system, one of the best nature ever made, actually, and he wondered what _that_ would do.

Logan opened his mouth and latched on to the tip of it, his tongue finding the suckers underneath, the ones that weren't really visible. It wasn’t as if they looked like octopus tentacles, or legs or whatever the PC term was for octopus legs these days. Clint watched, fascinated, letting the thrumming grow stronger in his gut, his hips jutting up a little 

"This here makes things interesting," Logan said to him simply when the tentacle slipped from his mouth and wrapped around his index finger. His eyes moved across Clint's front, and his other hand reached up to touch the lower tentacles that grouped around the larger ones. The inner ones were longer and fewer, three actually, but the outer ones ranged in size from finger length to a foot. 

Logan didn't ask him how it all fit into his trousers. He didn't ask what the fuck. He didn't ask things like, 'How do you piss?', which strangely was the first question most people asked. And by most people, Clint meant his doctors and a few scientists Fury had made him visit. Nat had never asked, because she was smart enough to know what uses the thing had that pertained to her, and pissing was not one of them. 

Like Nat, Logan wasn't stupid. It was obvious what the tentacles could do by virtue of their shapes and movement. Now he ran his callused fingers at the base of the bottom tentacles, the hard skin tickling the softer skin there. They reacted of their own accord. Clint had minute control over them, but he wasn't going to be using his crotch to hold tools or forks or something, so he'd never bothered to try to control them that much. 

In any case, the things that reached for Logan, who crouched down in front of Clint, were pretty good at doing whatever the fuck they wanted. They knew what Clint needed, though he didn't like the idea that they had any separate sentience. Oh Jesus.

One of them reached up and brushed along the hair on the side of Logan's face. It felt like combing a log. 

"They weirded Tony out," Clint whispered.

Logan snorted. "Tony Stark is like a paper bike—everyone tries to ride it once before it breaks down."

"And you?"

Logan shifted, and grabbed three of Clint's tentacles, the small ones up towards the top, where his treasure trail of real hair ended and the odder bits of him began, and twined them around his fingers and then pulled, _pulled_ with just enough tug to make Clint hurt, so badly, as if they'd come off (with enough pull they would, he knew), but it was a good kind of hurt, yeah. If there were a little fist inside his crotch, just under the skin, deep in the meat there, it would have started thrumming. 

"Ain't nothing strange," Logan said finally, loosening his fingers, and then, without warning, he bent into Clint's groin and sucked the base of the biggest tentacle there. 

There were fifteen, Clint knew. He'd had them since he'd been fourteen, and things had…well happened in the circus. He could claim that he'd been cursed, fallen afoul of the wrong gypsy witch queen. He'd fucked his way on the Winding Path or something like that, Wanda might flippantly mumble to him, but the fact of them had never been explained.

He didn't have anything to do with his hands, really, but grab the rock and use it to file the calluses off his hands. One of Logan's hands gripped his hip on the left, though whether he was holding Clint in place or just holding was uncertain. His other hand reached between Clint's legs and spread them more, traveling down behind the mass of writhing appendages, maybe looking for something else, something that was also foreign, or maybe just to assure himself that there wasn't some sort of spine that was going to impale his head when he—

Logan bit down on the tentacle, one of the big ones, right at the base. It wasn't enough to cause blood, but Clint howled. The other longer tentacles wrapped around Logan's head and neck, almost squeezing the man's throat but not really trying. Even they seemed to be aware that the thing sucking them off had extra appendages of his own that could make their lives decidedly shorter. 

"You don't—" Clint started, but then Logan scraped at the bite and something burst inside him. He wasn't a pain junkie, not really, but something about the brand of stars that Logan made explode behind his eyes was something he'd buy. He'd buy this brand forever.

"You know," Logan said, lifting his head from the bite. He smiled when one of the tentacles strained at his throat, and his voice was huskier than normal. "Ain't been many times in my life I have to say I'm fumbling around down here."

Clint barked a laugh. Of course. 

"You're doing fine," he mumbled.

"Like," Logan said, leaning back onto his haunches, which made the tentacles around his neck strain, and pull at the base, and Clint ended up following him up off the rock to standing. "That's interesting."

"Well I—"

Logan reached both hands up now and gathered them all together like a girl trying to make a ponytail, and then rubbed his face against it. "Got some serious mojo working for this," he said, almost scientifically. His tongue lapped at the mass of skin, not aiming in particular, but skipping over the surface like running his fingers haphazardly down a piano. 

"Better than yours," Clint said, and the revelation made him pause. Logan closed his eyes, face and tongue still working in lazy circles. _That smell… ___

__"I'm an old man," Logan said, and with a gentle arrangement of limbs that didn't rip anything off, Clint laid out a bit on the ground, Logan's face still buried close to his crotch, away from the beer cans and cigar butts and arrows, and thank god, Loki._ _

__"I can't reach you from here," Clint argued, but Logan waved it away._ _

__"One of us needs to keep his dick in his pants here, you know," he said, his head tossing back to Loki, and Clint noticed the corded muscles of his upper chest, just below the clavicles. The suit had been alternately shredded and preserved, so that parts of him showed through, all hair and sweat and muscle movement under skin. Clint reached up with one hand and dug his fingers under the reinforced spandex. Logan never needed armor, he liked to joke, just a pocket for his smokes and cash for a six-pack._ _

__Logan's hands moved down between Clint's legs, slid them apart, and his hands busied themselves with something Clint could only guess at, because it all felt like a whirlwind of fuck, and his mouth was latched onto Logan's chest as it hovered over him. It was no mean feat, and the man was a hell of a lot shorter that he was. But Jesus, his chest tasted better than his mouth, something that didn't have a comparison. Tony would have bottled it for study. He probably already had._ _

__Logan grunted and rolled just a little bit so that he was on the bottom now. He was pretty fucking heavy, and Clint straddled him and inched up so that he rode the man's chest. One long tentacle reached out and stuffed itself into Logan's mouth. Another did a lap around his throat. Logan breathed like a drafthorse, his chest so powerful its movement pumped Clint up and down. Clint's trousers were still on his left leg. His boot had come off his right foot ages ago. One of his tentacles reached down between his legs and back, to his ass, and swirled around the opening there. Logan's hand followed it, and with a gentle bite down at the tentacle that was exploring his mouth, he smiled around it._ _

__There was never any need for lube, not because Clint was some sort of self-lubricating circus freak, but because he liked it a little, when it was just himself. He was always sort of moist anyway, which sounded a great deal more unsavory than it actually was. Clint trotted along on Logan's chest before leaning back and reaching behind him with his left hand and grinding the palm of it onto Logan's hard cock, trapped in his uniform._ _

__Things smelled like a men's locker room, and salt, and that after-lightning smell, which wasn't probably it, but Clint wasn't up to analysis at the moment. He let Logan work one finger, and then two into his ass; his thighs were gripping Logan like an English saddle, and most of his…other parts were sucking every last drop of everything from Logan's skin that they could reach. Logan thrust up against his hand, connected to his straightened arm, jarred his shoulder, counter beat against the pattern of his chest, and Clint was treated to the bumpiest ride of his life._ _

__If he had thought that Logan was being rough before, he had no words to describe what was happening now—fingers pumped his ass, and teeth and hand brusquely handled his front, and when Clint gripped Logan though the spandex (there were some things spandex was good for), he grabbed as hard as possible, not caring that years of combat had made his grip sure and quite formidable._ _

__He was very sure that if he had punched Logan in the face with his free hand it would have been quite all right._ _

__But Logan growled and came and his fingers withdrew from Clint's ass, but his mouth worked at the tentacle when it tried to go down his throat. Clint wasn't sure if it was actively trying to kill Logan or not. He leaned forward to take himself in hand. His whole lower half felt fluid and soft, like he'd been melted, and Clint could have stopped here. He never came, obviously, but that didn't matter. He was floppy, easy, slippery, and that was just how he liked it._ _

__Logan grabbed his chin and pushed, though it could have been idle, but then Clint felt the hardness at the back of Logan's throat go soft, and the way opened, and he deepthroated Clint, letting the tentacle slink past the back of his throat and a few more inches down his esophagus. His eyes closed, but his fingers pulsed a grip on Clint's chin to let him know he was alive._ _

__Clint wasn't sure how, but if you had asked him later, he might have said that he'd come._ _

__It took a few minutes to untangle everything, for things to recede and calm down. Logan shook his head at his own uniform, and then shrugged. He reached in his pocket and found his cigars, but they'd both broken._ _

__Whoops.  
Loki groaned and Logan shifted, twisting his torso so that Clint was hidden by his stout but wide upper body, which was a blessing, because parts of him were shriveled and limp and quote a bit sticky, and altogether hard to tuck back away into himself. _ _

__"It smells quite odd in here," Loki said suddenly, going from sleep to wakefulness in about .05 seconds._ _

__"You pissed yourself," Logan told him._ _

__*_ _

__"How does this not get you all the tail you could ever want?" Logan asked later, one hand on the back of Loki's collar. He'd taken the helmet with its golden stag horns and was carrying it in the other hand by one long antler._ _

__Clint didn't answer. It was too complicated and he didn't know what he was supposed to say. Plus Loki looked to be very very interested in the answer, and if there was one person he didn't want knowing _any_ more about him than he already did, it was that jackass._ _

__The chopper was one of those prototypes Clint hated, because it wisely didn't have doors on one side, because suck. Clint liked free falling, but not as much as he had before New York last year._ _

__"You going back to the Triskelion?" he asked Clint as the boys loaded Loki into the restraints and then onto a stretcher that was more leather strap than medical anything. Logan swung the helmet up by one antler, and its gravity carried the headpiece up in the air, the long curving arc of the horn rolling along Logan's open palm. All grace and style, that one._ _

__"Well, yeah," Clint said. He had a shitton of paperwork to do, and by that he meant a form for every arrow he'd shot and failed to retrieve, it felt like. Logan was additional staff, on loan from (or to) Fury, and as such had as much paperwork as Casper the friendly ghost, who apparently was incapable of holding a pen. Ghosts were incorporeal and did nothing._ _

__Well._ _

__Logan shrugged. "Got beer there?"_ _

__Clint cocked his head and nodded to the guys as they swept the cave for anything accidental left behind. One man came out with a Walgreens bag that probably held all Logan's butts and empties._ _

__"They do," he said finally. "They also have cocoa."_ _

__Logan narrowed his eyes at him then. Maybe Clint wasn't supposed to reveal that he knew that bit. Natasha was chatty when holed up in safehouses for three weeks in Budapest. Clint had learned _loads_. It was _ deploying_ what he'd learned that sometimes needed work. His timing was impeccable for everything but his mouth, actually.

Well.

"Aw hell," Logan said, tossing the helmet at one of the empty handed troops and hoisting himself up into the chopper as if he hadn't been filleted and back and fucked and back and all that for hours on end. "It's not like that's a secret."

Clint followed him in and sat, exhausted, more exhausted than he ought to be, down next to Logan on the chopper's side seats and leaned against the headrest. Jesus, he wanted a shower. 

Logan's thigh pressed against the side of his when the chopper took off and vectored hard left. But once they straightened course, it didn't move away.

END


End file.
